banana and a freshly brewed pot of coffee sits close by.
I practically run toward the coffee, my sense of smell doing a somersault in excitement. Once I’ve poured myself a cup, I cradle it, basking in the bitter yet rich aroma.
I wonder how long Roman has lived here, wherever here is. With that thought in mind, I take a tour. Freud leads the way. The first stop is the living room, where a large black leather sofa curves around an oval glass coffee table. A tall lamp sits off to the right, but the centerpiece of the room is the bookcases lining every wall. Volumes upon volumes of books are stacked high, without a spare shelf in sight. A plasma is mounted on the wall above a fireplace.
Next on the list is Roman’s office. It looks very similar to the one at work. There is also a spare room, but it’s rather sparse with only an old leather couch and some stacked boxes. I quickly close the door, feeling like I’m encroaching on a space that isn’t meant to be seen.
I reenter the kitchen, ready for my second cup of coffee.
Roman’s house is humble, but it contains all the things he needs. One major thing is missing, though—photographs. Even in my loveless home, Camille had pictures on display. They were there just for show, but regardless, they were there. This home lacks a personal touch. Has Roman done this on purpose? Or maybe he just doesn’t like photographs. That’s not a crime, but I can’t help but think there’s a reason behind the impersonal feel.
Once I finish my coffee, I wash my cup and place it in the dishwasher. The clock on the wall reveals it’s just past seven a.m. I really would love a shower, but I have no clean clothes. I’m sure Roman wouldn’t mind if I borrowed some of his. The thought of rummaging through his drawers seems like a total invasion of his privacy, however.
But so does parading around naked.
Before hunting through his drawers, I make his bed. I fist pump when I find an old Yankees tee and sweats. I strip on the way to the en suite, leaving a trail of clothes.
The scorching droplets of water feel heavenly against my skin as the showerhead spurts out a downpour of heavy rain. I stand under the spray for twenty minutes, my mind calm.
Once I step out, I reach for a clean towel from a long rectangular shelf. I draw the fluffy material to my nose and take a big whiff. It smells fresh, like laundry detergent, but there is an undertone of Roman’s trademark cologne.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Granted, I haven’t really been around the opposite sex, but I have a feeling even if I were, they would all pale compared to Roman. I’ve fooled around and kissed a few guys, but I’m still a virgin. Getting sick in my prime hardly made me dateable material.
Dressing in Roman’s attire, I chuckle at my appearance in the mirror because his clothes hang off my gaunt frame. Picking at the hem of this well-loved shirt, I wonder what the story is behind it. If not for this T-shirt and the baseball in his office, I would have never known about his love for the Yankees.
That has me wondering about the lack of personal effects in not only his office but also his home.
The boxes in the spare room may be filled with his most prized possessions. Photographs of loved ones. Maybe he’s moving, and he’s packed everything away.
Deciding to take a walk, I slip into my Chucks and make my way toward the kitchen. The moment I reach for Freud’s lead off the hook near the door, he comes charging down the hallway, tongue and tail flailing. Just as I’m about to open the door, the phone rings, startling me half to death. I peer at it on the counter, wondering if Roman’s calling to ensure I haven’t burned his house down.
The caller reveals who they are a second later when the machine clicks over.
“Hi, you know what to do.” Roman’s machine voice still has the power to give me goose bumps.
“Hey, man, it’s Teddy. I tried your cell, but you’re probably already at work. I wanted to let you know all is set for…September first. I have no idea why that date is so imperative, but I’ve known you long enough to know not to ask any questions. Hit me up when